


from within the walls of the organization

by GalaxyGhosty



Series: The Monster's Darling [21]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 15:04:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17143982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyGhosty/pseuds/GalaxyGhosty
Summary: AU. The untold stories from before, during, and after Jack and Dark's rendezvous.Or, the collection of oneshots that discuss pre-canon, post-canon, and everything in between.





	1. the one with anti

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas!
> 
> What a pleasure it is to add to "The Monster's Darling" series again.
> 
> I made mention some time ago that I had plenty of TMD shorts that I wanted to post eventually, and for a while I struggled with when and how to post them--and to put them into any sort of order. It was a lot to think about and I wanted to wait a substantial time before posting it to let the ending sink in--to let it lie for a while before I revisited it. As you can see, I've developed a ton of projects since, and while that list is ever-growing, I've found myself inexplicably drawn back to their world.
> 
> I've missed these particular boys a lot. I've grown a lot as a writer since starting this series some time ago, and even since its end, I feel like my writing style has shifted a lot. I've talked about how I want to rewrite the series a LOT, and I do plan on getting to that someday, but that's for _some_ day, not today. For now, I'm happy to share these small stories with you in hopes to fill in some blanks.
> 
> If you've any questions about the verse itself or something that isn't answered, feel free to drop a comment asking or drop me a line at my tumblr! 
> 
> Please enjoy. Thank you all so much for loving this series and supporting it--it holds a near and dear place in my heart, so how comforting it is to see everyone else likes it, too.

Anti’s just getting out of the shower when there’s a knock at his door. 

Granted, he’s in a hotel at the moment, so this isn’t unusual, but goddamn is it weird. Rarely does he get visitors, and certainly he doesn’t get ones that aren’t announced or expected. He takes his sweet time towel drying his hair, pulling on PJs, because unlike someone he knows, he likes to enjoy himself after a long, hard day. 

Once he’s ready to go, he pops a cigarette into his mouth, lighting it before he pads his way over to the door. He doesn’t bother looking through the peephole, opening it wide with little fear. Pulling the cigarette from his mouth, he drawls out, “Yeah?”

It’s a hooded figure, though if Anti were to wager a guess, it’s a younger boy. In his hands, he holds out a file full of paperwork. Anti stares at it with mute curiosity. 

“From Director Hanson and Avidan,” he says, his voice soft. “They thank you for your work. As requested, here is your payment.” 

Anti takes the file from his hand, finding it to be heavier than expecting. “Thanks. Anything else?”

He’d bet his last dime he makes this kid nervous. It makes him smile. “No, that will be all.”

“Great,” Anti grins. “Get lost.” 

He slams the door, locking it behind him as he meanders towards his bed. Technically, this is a no-smoking facility, but no one’s gonna know if the smoke detector is disabled, yeah? He tosses the file down onto the bed, plopping himself down next to it. He takes a long drag of his cigarette, stumping it out on the nightstand before turning his attention to the file. 

Anti opens it with a ginger touch, a series of typed and handwritten documents, signatures and legality that he doesn’t give a damn about. All of them bear the same similarity of the name Vincent McLoughlin, horrible husband to multiple women and Anti’s unfortunate birth father. 

Grand. His father had always been a bit of a gambler, so upon his death there hadn’t been much that he left behind. A couple of hundred dollars here and there, a car, but Anti isn’t in any position to swoop in and take it. He doesn’t want to. Money’s not been an issue for him in a long time, and he’s not particularly concerned with getting a beat up ‘97 Corolla that has maybe a market value of six whole dollars.

He’s not surprised his father’s dead. The records show he died of alcohol poisoning, and he’s really surprised a heart attack didn’t do him in sooner. Or some loan shark didn’t murder him. 

Anti would’ve loved to have gotten the hit on his own shitty father. What a birthday present that would be--the only birthday present he ever really got.

Unless he counts Dark, lavishing him in copious amounts of attention. Anti considers that more of a punishment, to be fair. 

At least Dark doesn’t bother him much anymore. Not after “The Talk,” which basically boiled down to Anti calling him a goddamn fool for falling in love with him. 

His father’s ex-wife and Anti’s birth mother died shortly after he’d been born, and Anti had lived a whopping ten years with his dear ol’ dad before dipping out, getting involved with the darker part of town. They took to him fast, enamored with the small kid unafraid of anything, and eventually they dubbed him Anti. The name has always stuck. 

There are some court case records of women his father had fucked over trying to take what few assets he has remaining, and Anti is glad he’s not getting involved. A couple of women claim that they have children with him, but his father had always been particularly careful to not have another mistake after Anti. 

This is why he’s surprised to see a separate document entitled _JACK MCLOUGHLIN_. 

Anti rips into the file, pouring over the details. 

JACK MCLOUGHLIN  
_**AGE** : 17_  
_**SEX** : M_  
_**EYE** : BLUE_  
_**HAIR** : BRO_  
_**BLOOD TYPE** : xx _  
_**RESIDENCE** : 4141 Doxaline Drive_  
_**DOB** : UNKNOWN _  
_**NOTES** : Registered as a dependent of the state at 12-years-old. Has current residence at LITTLE WHISPERS ORPHANAGE. Previously in the care of Callum McLoughlin, the dependent’s uncle, until the individual overdosed on diamorphine. The dependent is rowdy and in severe need of discipline, take caution when handling. _

He feels like he’s got no air in his lungs, but that’s not due to his chronic smoking habit. The attached photo of the boy just...startles him. 

Jack McLoughlin looks like him in a lot of ways. He’s got the same curve in his jaw, has the same piercing eyes. Anti inherited his father’s green eyes, but it seems Jack did not. But in its place, he’s got a mess of green hair on top his head, angry and bitter and reminding Anti so much of himself. 

_McLoughlin_. That’s his father’s last name. He remembers Callum. Almost as terrible as his father. This child--this _boy_ \--is his brother. He’s got a brother. 

Anti swallows the lump in his throat, cursing his heart for still being even marginally human. Reaching across the bed, he grabs his cell phone, ripping it off the charger as he dials the number for Director Hanson.

It rings three times before it finally picks up. “Is there a problem, Anti?”

“Jack McLoughlin,” he breathes out, struggling to keep his voice even. “Why did you include the file on Jack McLoughlin?”

_“You asked us for information regarding Vincent McLoughlin,”_ Hanson tells him. _“We included information on his habits, his health, and his family. Jack McLoughlin is a blood relative. We didn’t want to shortchange you on the information you were promised.”_

“Right,” Anti shakes his head, irritation boiling beneath his skin. Goddamn these people. “Alright. That’s all I had to ask.”

_“Should you like to know more,”_ Hanson goes on, _“you know our number. Pleasure working with you, Anti. I hope to keep in touch.”_

“Yeah, yeah,” Anti sneers out, hanging up. The phone clicks. He gnaws on his lower lip, picking at the skin.

Fuck. _Fuck_. 

He’s got a goddamn brother. Unbelievable.

“Way to go, Dad,” Anti sneers out, to whatever hellian may be listening. “Way to throw one more goddamn wrench into the shitty life you created for me. Fuck you, bastard. Hope you’re roasting in hell where you belong.” 

No one answers, and he isn’t expecting it. He grabs the cigarette he’d stubbed out and relights it, leaning back onto the pillows, puffing out some smoke. 

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_. 

Anti lays there for a long time, before finally reaching for his cellphone again. He dials the number, one of the only numbers he has memorized and waits for the receiver to pick up.

_“Hello? Anti?”_

“Nathan,” Anti drawls out. “I need a favor.”

_“On what occasion?”_

“Because you owe me,” Anti spits. “Saved your fucking life when I should’ve left you to die. Don’t worry. This will be an easy task--something you can even comprehend.”

A scoff. _“Fine. What do you want?”_

Anti sits up, and grabs the photo of Jack. He crinkles the edge with an iron grip, murmuring out, “I want you to find out everything there is to know about a boy named Jack McLoughlin.”


	2. the one with anti (pt.2)

Jack is curled into the warmth of Dark’s chest when the door squeaks open.

Dark’s hold on him doesn’t loosen, even as he shifts to try and get a look at the intruder. If anything, his grip gets tighter. “Fuck, Anti, ever heard of knocking?”

“The knocking will be on your skull if you keep that up,” Anti calls back. There’s a brief pause. “Jack with you?”

Dark smoothes a hand down his back. “Does it matter?”

“Considering I didn’t come here for your crusty ass,” Anti’s voice approaches, and Jack glances up and sees him, standing in the doorway. “Yes. Ah, there he is. Hello, a mhuirnín. It’s good to see you.” 

Jack’s always had a strange relationship with Anti. He’s always kind of awkward around him. Anti doesn’t seem to know what to do with Jack’s general existence, and seems to struggle holding a conversation even though he can spit insults at Dark all year round, every hour. He seems to like Jack for an unexplainable reason, albeit he can’t seem to express it well. 

“Hi Anti,” Jack replies, finding himself to be remarkably drowsy. “Is everything okay?”

Anti lets out a noncommittal hum, and that’s the end of that, at least. 

“Do you mind?” Dark grouses out, and Jack feels the vibrations through him, low and controlled, but still pissy. Dark seems to relish in the quiet time between the two of them, and Jack finds it really cute, if his lover can be considered such a thing. “We’re busy.” 

“Nope,” Anti says. “Out, Dark.” 

“Are you really telling me to get out of my own home?” he scoffs. “Go kill yourself.”

Anti sneers. “Naughty. I’m serious. Get out. Jack and I need to talk.”

Finally-- _finally_ \--Dark removes his arm, moving to sit up and glower at his former partner. “And what the fuck do you have to say to him?” 

A long pause follows, and Jack glances up at the two of them. There seems to be a wordless conversation happening, a language all their own, and something stirs in his stomach, uncomfortable, fearful. There’s something he doesn’t know. 

“Fine,” Dark says, half a spit. He tosses off the sheets and swipes up yesterday’s clothes from the floor, moving out of the room and towards the bathroom. This frightens Jack further, because never has he seen Dark hand him over to anyone willingly. 

Jack pulls the still warm sheets around himself, acting as a barrier between himself and whatever bad news Anti wants to drop on him. He seems uncomfortable and awkward, again, like always. The hostile nature he displayed just now seems to fade out, and in comes _puppy who doesn’t quite know how to handle him_.

This is strange, because normally-- _normally_ \--that’s Jack. The lost puppy. 

“Anti?” he starts, cotton in his mouth. “Is everything...okay?” 

“Of course,” Anti murmurs, sitting down in Dark’s place. He kicks off his shoes and sits cross-legged on the bed, fiddling with the sleeves of the black hoodie he’s wearing. “I’m not...good at this. Fuck.” 

What could he possibly not be good at?

“If there’s something wrong, you can tell me,” Jack tries. “I...won’t tell Dark.” 

“Bastard already knows,” Anti rolls his eyes. “Shit. Jack... _a mhuirnín_. This...you’re not going to like this.”

Jack swallows. “You’re not gonna tell me you’re in love with me, are you?”

“No!” Anti looks visibly repulsed. “Absolutely fucking not. Christ. _No_.”

“Are you going to tell me you were...involved with him?” and there’s no need to imply who _he_ is. 

His expression softens. “No, of course not.”

“Then I can’t imagine,” Jack murmurs, “what you could say that would hurt me.”

Anti presses his lips into a thin line. He rolls out his shoulders, craning his neck towards the bathroom door, as though to confirm that it’s shut, before sighing. He reaches over and pats Jack’s knee, tucked securely underneath the blanket.

“Do you remember a man named Vincent McLoughlin?” 

And Jack--there’s no good way for him to answer that question. Uncle Callum had told him bits and pieces, but he knows very little of the man except for two things: that he’s a right ass, and that he’s his biological father. 

“He’s my dad,” Jack admits quietly. “Didn’t...really know him. Why?”

Anti’s lips curl into a sneer, irritated and bitter. “Well, he’s dead, for one.” 

“Oh,” Jack says, and he’s surprisingly unaffected by this. When he’d found out about his mom, he’d been devastated, but his dad… “That’s...bad.”

“Not really,” Anti says. “He was a complete waste of space. Waste of oxygen. Waste of resources.”

“How do you know my dad?” Jack asks. 

The other man lets out a soft little sigh, tense and uncomfortable. He’s looking anywhere but Jack’s face and he finds this suspicious, somehow. 

“Vincent McLoughlin is _my_ father,” Anti breathes out, and finally, his green eyes meet his. 

And he says no more. Jack squints, trying to process the revelation. Right. So his biological dad is also Anti’s dad, so that means--

Oh. 

_Oh_.

“Oh,” Jack wheezes out. “Oh.” 

Anti reaches out to touch him again, but Jack flinches away. The other--his brother--pulls away without protest. “Look, I--”

“How long?” Jack whispers. “How long have you known?”

The look on his face is grim. “Since you were seventeen.” 

It’s been over ten years since then. Jack curls his fingers into his fist, crumpling the sheets beneath his touch. “You knew and you didn’t...you didn’t tell me.” 

“I wasn’t sure how,” his voice is soft, almost frightened. “I had...no attachment to my-- _our_ \--father. My mother died in childbirth. I ran away at ten. I didn’t...know about you until you were seventeen, already in the foster system. I wasn’t--I’m not good. I could provide no benefit to your life--”

“But you _knew_ ,” Jack grinds his teeth. “You knew when you met me. You knew _before_ that. You--fuck, fuck, Dark knew? Dark knew and didn’t tell me?” 

Anti reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws a carton of cigarettes. His hands tremble slightly, and on any other occasion this would concern him, but he can’t give a damn. He lights it, the smoke billowing out. “Look, kid--”

“Don’t _kid_ me!” he roars, and Anti seems taken aback by his hostility. Blood boils beneath his skin, and he’s _so_ angry all of a sudden. Why, why does everyone in his life lie to him? What is it with these fucking people and lying to him? “There was _no_ reason you couldn’t tell me! I have gone my _entire_ life thinking I was alone! That I didn’t have _anyone_ to call family! And you’ve been what, watching me? Is this your way of protecting me? Look how well that worked! I fell in love with the goddamn mob boss! I was tortured and _raped_ , I killed a man, and will probably kill more before I die! You did great, Anti! _Fucking. Great._ ”

The other puffs on the cigarette like it’s a lifeline. He won’t look Jack in the eye, and hot, bitter tears well in his eyes. “Fuck, Anti. _Fuck_. I wish you hadn’t told me. You shouldn’t have _fucking_ told me. Get out. I don’t--fuck. I don’t want to see you.” 

Without protest, Anti rises to his feet, slipping on his shoes and before long, he hears the click of the house door. Jack buries his face in his hand, shaking, and he lets out a whimper. Anti’s known for _so long_ , how could he not tell him? And why tell him now, after everything? But it makes sense. Anti, caring about him. Anti, being concerned for his well being. Anti, threatening Dark every time he hurt him. Anti, coming to their side without prompt, after abandoning Dark for so long. 

It fucking makes sense. Jack just would’ve never guessed there was another secret like this hiding behind the walls. 

The bathroom door creaks open.

“Don’t,” Jack spits out, raising his eyes to look at him as Dark opens his mouth. “Don’t you fucking apologize to me.” 

“He asked me not to tell you,” Dark approaches, but Jack grabs the glass of water by his bed, hurling it towards him. He sidesteps it, but the glass crumbles on the floor. “Jack!”

“Anything else, you goddamn bastard?” he screams, voice hoarse. A fresh bout of tears hit him full force. He lets out a sob, pitiful and angry. “Is there anything _fucking_ else that you’re hiding from me? Are you done ruining my _fucking_ life?”

“It wasn’t my revelation to tell,” Dark soothes, but his words don’t work, not this time. “He didn’t _tell_ me. I found out. And when I did, he told me not to tell you. What was I supposed to do, darling?”

“You have _never_ cared about going back on your word before,” Jack sneers. “Why did this time matter?” 

Dark presses his lips into a thin line. “That’s not fair, Jack.”

“And it wasn’t fair for you to hide from me that I had _family_ left!” Jack feels light-headed he’s breathing so hard. “I have gone my whole life being alone, Dark. My dad left. My uncle died. You _killed_ my mom. And now I find out you tried to hide the fact that I actually had a living relative.”

“You have _never_ been alone,” Dark hisses, and Jack can count on one hand how many times Dark’s used that tone of voice on him. It’s the voice he uses when he’s particularly irritated with Jack, or if he feels like Jack’s being a brat, or sometimes both. “ _I_ have _always_ been here for you. _I_ have _never_ wavered. And just because I chose to omit this information from you does _not_ mean I have _betrayed_ you.”

“You don’t _get_ to tell me how I feel!” Jack snaps back. “You don’t get to lie to me _again_ and _again_ and then pretend like it’s okay! I deserve better than this!” 

“I told him to tell you,” Dark spits. “I told him that you wanted a family. It was his choice to keep it from you, so if you want to be mad at someone, be mad at him. Do _not_ take this out on me.”

Jack lets out an exasperated scream, pulling himself out of bed. He tosses on his clothes from last night, wrinkled and smelling of booze and Dark’s cologne. 

“Accomplice,” Jack grabs his phone from the nightstand. “You knew. You didn’t tell me. That makes you an accomplice. You always were his partner in crime, weren’t you?”

“Jack,” Dark warns, voice low. “Enough.” 

“I’m leaving,” he growls, shoving his phone into his pocket. He tries to ignore the shaking in his hands, and the desire to goad Dark more. He’s fairly confident Dark won’t hurt him, has never done so before, but there’s a first for everything, isn’t there? “Don’t follow me.”

His partner says nothing as Jack walks to the door, grabbing his shoes. He slides them onto his feet, bracing himself on the frame as he calls out behind him, “And don’t send anyone to follow me!”

Then he throws open the door and slams it, heading out into the bright morning street.


	3. the one with ethan

Ethan Nestor is having the dullest, most normal of mornings.

But he rather likes it that way, all things considered.

The cartoon channel drolls on some silly cartoons from the 90s, old school shows that remind him of how fucked up it was to be a kid during this era. Nevertheless, they’re charming all the same, spooning mouthfuls of Fruit Loops into his mouth with the occasional snort here and there. 

He doesn’t have to be at work until this evening, shift manager for tonight at the little restaurant on West End, and so he takes the time to go outside, a rarity for him. After saying goodbye to each succulent in his house, a leftover habit from an old friend who adored them, he locks his apartment door and heads on his way. 

Ethan is halfway down the walkway of the park when a tense mop of brown hair catches his eyes. He glances over and takes in the person--he doesn’t recognize them all that well, but Ethan’s only just moved here, after all. Long legs and black skinny jeans, ripped at the knees, black lace up shoes and a hoodie, pushed up at the elbows. They’re staring at their phone so intently Ethan is sure it might burst into flames. 

It’s a dude, probably, the hair on the jawline giving him a bit of a clue, though he doesn’t like to assume. Ethan begins to walk again for fear of looking creepy, just staring at him, but a split second occurs when he gets a clear look at his features.

No fucking way.

“Jacky?” he calls out, watching as the man’s eyes whip up, and yeah, sure enough, he’d recognize those troublesome eyes anywhere. “Jacky!” 

“Oh my god,” Jack rises to his feet, a smile blooming on his lips. He stuffs his phone into his pocket, the familiar spring in his step, after all these years. “Oh my god! Ethan! Shit, is that you?”

Ethan’s arms are already out as Jack pulls him into a hug, his body warm and solid. His old friend has certainly filled out, not as lanky as he remembers. Age does that to a person. He laughs as Jack clenches his arms around him, lifting him up a fraction to spin him before placing him back down. 

“I never thought I’d see you again,” Jack breathes out, the smile brilliant and bright. “Fuck, Ethan, how _are_ you? Look at you! You look great.”

“Who’re you telling?” Ethan wags a finger at him. “So do you! Lookit that face! No more baby Jack!” 

Absently, Jack runs a hand along his jawline, laughing. “Yeah. Something like that. I swear I didn’t recognize you without the blue hair, at first.”

“Could say the same for you,” Ethan replies. His chest swells at the memory. It was one of the few things they’d done together at the orphanage, the little bit of fun they could have. Him and Jack had done it together, something crazy, and he remembers Signe dyeing hers darker. “I almost didn’t know it was you without the green. But I know those troublesome eyes anywhere.”

Jack gives him an overexaggerated wink. “Always up to trouble, me. But for real, dude, how have you been? What’s happening?”

He rubs at his neck. “Finishing up film school, actually. Living in my own place, manage a restaurant on West End when I’m not drowning in coursework.”

Jack’s got a wistful look in his eyes. “You’re...in film school.”

“Yeah?”

“Just like you always dreamed,” the words are soft, delicate. Jack heaves out a sigh. “That’s...amazing, dude. Really.”

Ethan shrugs, reaching out to take Jack’s hand. It’s rougher than he remembers, but time isn’t kind to humans, he’s come to find out. “I’m really grateful, yeah. But dude, tell me how life’s been for you? What have you been getting into? More trouble, as always?”

Jack’s lips curl into a smile, almost somber, but not quite. “You have no idea.”

“Tell me all about it,” Ethan sifts through his pocket, checking his phone. “Hey, why don’t we get lunch? You can tell me everything. I don’t have to be at work ‘til later, so I can show you my place too, if you want?”

Jack runs a hand through his poofy hair. “I’d honestly love nothing more.” 

~~

Three cups of coffee later, Ethan has talked more about himself than Jack, but from what he’s gathered about Jack in his bursts of explanation, it’s that he really pulled himself together after aging out, got a degree, and started working. From what he can tell, Jack’s got money for the first time in his life--not that he’s flaunting it, but even with the way he’s dressed like he always would be, he’s got an air about him. Gone is the poor orphan boy, gone is the struggling college student. Ethan’s happy for him.

“When your graduation?” Jack asks, swirling his black coffee around in the mug. 

“Sometime in the spring,” Ethan tells him. 

“Can I come?” Jack tilts his head, a familiar gesture, like he’s scared Ethan will say no. Like he would _ever_ say no to this opportunity.

“Of course you can,” Ethan rolls his eyes, sliding his phone across the table. “Gimme your phone number, you doof. I’ll text you when it’s coming up, where it’ll be. You can meet my classmates. It’ll be great.”

Jack fishes his phone out of his pocket, sliding it over to him as well, indicating that he wants the same from him. A few moments later, numbers are input, and Jack has the softest, most genuine smile on his lips. 

“You’re looking kind of down, bub,” Ethan says, addressing the elephant in the room. “What’s up?” 

His old friend offers a noncommittal shrug. “Nothing. Just...digging up old ghosts, you know? Finding out stuff that I didn’t want to know. Stuff that I should’ve known a long time ago.” 

Then a sigh. “This isn’t the place to talk about it.” 

Ethan rises to his feet. “Do you want to head back to my place, then? Where it’s a little more private? Walls aren’t too thin and my neighbors keep to themselves.”

“Sounds...great,” Jack says, like his heart isn’t in it. Ethan chooses to be optimistic, however. 

They pay their respective bills, and the walk back to his apartment is pleasant. Jack goes a little in depth about some of his work--web designing and freelance software development, how his laptop is practically his lifeline. 

It’s so strange, reconnecting with this part of his life. It had been tearful, saying goodbye to Jack when he’d aged out of Little Whispers, but he’d promised to make something of himself, to become larger than this orphanage had made him out to be. Ethan hadn’t been far behind him in age, but when he’d aged out a couple years later, Jack had long dropped off the radar. No attempts at finding him ever turned up anything. He’s missed him. 

Ethan had been friends with two people at the orphanage, Jack and Signe. They’d been an inseparable trio, always getting into ruckus together. Signe, a couple months older than Jack, at least on paper, aged out, followed shortly by Jack, leaving Ethan all on his own to survive the last years of loneliness. 

It’s strange, having him back. For all the different he projects, he is...similar. He’s not the same, certainly, but Ethan can tell that he’s been through something. He’s been polite and hasn’t asked, but the fading scars on Jack’s arms tell a story he’s not ready to hear. 

He pushes the key into the lock of his apartment, halfway through a joke when he opens the door. 

Jack stops laughing. Ethan looks inside, and there, sitting, is a man. 

Ethan has never seen him before in his life. 

A thin cloud of smoke trails from his mouth, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. He’s a broad man, well built and muscled, looking clean, prim, and proper. The suit he’s wearing probably costs more than this entire apartment complex, his black hair sweeping into his eyes, artfully tousled. 

The man isn’t looking at him. His eyes remain transfixed on Jack, and when he looks over at his old friend, Jack looks _livid_. 

“What did I _fucking_ say!” he roars, and yeah, there’s the voice that Ethan remembers. “God _fucking_ damn it, Dark!” 

The man, Dark, rolls his eyes, rising to his feet. “It’s been hours, darling. You were supposed to be home--”

“I’m not a fucking child!” Jack screams. “I don’t have a goddamn curfew! Shut up!” 

Before Dark can say anything else, Ethan interrupts, “This is a non-smoking building.” 

A pregnant pause. The tension in the room is so thick Ethan could saw through it with a chainsaw, if he owned one. Though, the man makes absolutely no effort to put out his cigarette. 

Jack lets out a low, suffering sigh. He turns to him. “Do you mind stepping out into the hall for a bit?”

“This is _my_ apartment,” Ethan protests. “Jack--”

“Please, Ethan,” Jack says. His eyes are so angry, but he’s holding back. He’s almost scared to leave Jack on his own, or for the other man’s sake. “I’ll get this sorted out, okay?” 

He gives a short nod, before turning and stepping out into the hall. The door clicks shut. 

Nothing for a moment. Then--

_“What did I fucking say, Dark? What did I **fucking** ask you to do?”_

_“You didn’t ask for anything,”_ the reply, petulant. _“You stormed out like a five year old.”_

_“I’m actually going to murder you,”_ Jack, hot and spitting, _“How the fuck did you get in this place?”_

_“Wasn’t hard, I--”_

_“I haven’t seen Ethan in **years** , Dark! I haven’t contacted him, haven’t looked for him, haven’t breathed his name to you in the last fucking decade I’ve been with you. So that means you **followed** me like I told you **not** to do, and broke into his fucking house like you own it!”_

Ethan sucks in a slow breath. Maybe this is a dream.

_“Jules actually owns this complex,”_ the man, Dark, says, _“the property, I mean. I hardly broke in.”_

_“You are **unbelievable** ,”_ Jack, hostile and resigned. _“You’re going to leave us alone.”_

Dark says something Ethan can’t hear, at a murmur, and Ethan presumes it to be either a plea or a threat of some kind. 

Jack doesn’t like it, at any rate.

_“No! Fuck you! Get out of this fucking apartment before I toss you out myself!”_

Another soft, incomprehensible set of words Ethan can’t make out. It’s at a rumble, this time, definitely a threat of some kind, or maybe that man is just like that, naturally. 

_“If you even think about touching me, I’ll cut your goddamn dick off. Then all that’s left of it will be that shitty fucking attitude.”_

That’s about all he hears, as the door behind him opens. Ethan turns around, and his neighbor, Tyler, gives him a peculiar look.

“Everything okay?” he asks, looking distinctly like he knows the answer to that particular question, but wants to be polite and ask anyway. 

Ethan offers him a soft, uncertain shrug. He gives him an uneasy smile, gesturing vaguely to his apartment door as a response, a loud crash echoing from inside the apartment. They both wince. 

_“Can you not be a complete and utter piece of shit for five seconds?”_

_“Can you not be a brat with every single breath?”_

He respectively turns his head away. Tyler lets out a low whistle, awkwardly holding onto the doorknob for a moment. Shifting on his feet, he tilts his head, “...Do you want a drink? I have coffee.” 

“Might be good,” Ethan replies, and follows him into the apartment. 

~~

Fifteen minutes later, the yelling seems to have stopped. 

Him and Tyler are having a pleasant conversation about their preferences of dog breeds when they notice this. Ethan meanders his way to the door, cracking it open to hear...blissful silence. 

“You might want to go inspect the damages,” Tyler suggests. “We can talk more later?”

“Sure,” Ethan replies. “I’ll invite you over when my apartment isn’t nearly on fire.”

His neighbor waves him off after Ethan thanks him for the tea, and with as much calmness as he can, he turns the knob on his apartment door, listening to the familiar squeak. 

Inside is Jack, straightening up furniture, picking up broken...something off the floor, his hand a little cup of shards of something. He hopes he doesn’t cut himself. Ethan can’t remember where the bandaids are in this house.

“...Everything okay?” he dares to ask, watching as Jack’s eyes flicker up to him.

It is, again, moments like these that Ethan notes how much older Jack has gotten. It’s a given, of course, but he’s so far removed from the boy he’d grown up with. There’s something so decidedly changed in him, wherein his core is still that good hearted boy, there’s a layer above it, now. Darker. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Jack says, without really meaning it. He rises to his feet, tossing the bits into the trash can. “Ethan, I...I’m so sorry about that. God, Dark is a complete ass. I promise you won’t see him again.”

Ethan shuts the door behind him, locking it, before glancing at the clock. Whatever is going on is heavier than he’d anticipated, and if that weird man is anything to go by, it’s not good.

“Let me call out of work,” Ethan murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Then you can...tell me what the heck just happened?”

Jack nods, as he plops down on his rugged couch. 

~~

There is nothing in the world to prepare him for the words out of Jack’s mouth.

“So that was Dark,” he says, and that on its own sounds normal, “he’s...the mob boss.” 

Oh. 

Ethan blinks. “You...you just. Bitched out the mob boss?”

“He’s also my…” Jack’s brows furrow, like he can’t explain it, for a moment. He shakes his head. “Boyfriend, I guess? Lover sounds weird. Partner doesn’t sound right. Boyfriend is...the closest, I guess.”

He sits back against the couch, breathing out slowly. He’s left speechless, for a moment. “You’re. You just bitched out the mob boss.”

“That’s what you’re hung up on?” Jack’s lips tilt into a ghost of a smile. 

“I’m sorry, I,” Ethan shakes his head. “Holy shit, Jack. That’s just so...you just _bitched_ out the mob boss, and you don’t look the worse for wear!” 

“I would say, he’s really not that bad, but that’s a bold-face lie.”

“The goddamn mob boss,” he repeats, still unable to comprehend that fully. “The mob boss, and you’re--wait, you’re _dating_ him?”

The snort Jack lets out is _rude_. “And now he catches it!”

“I mean, I always knew you were like, into guys,” Ethan swats at him. “That’s not new! I knew you were at least into guys when you went out at sixteen and told us you got fucked in the butt by some dude!”

Jack, at least, has the decency to look ashamed for a moment. “You see…”

No. _No_. “Are you telling me Scary Devil Man is the goddamn mob boss, who is also your boyfriend?” 

The night that Signe and Ethan had helped Jack sneak out he had never been the same. Their three hearts had pounded as one, so frightened that Jack was going to get caught and that he’d never be allowed to see the outside again, or that he’d never be allowed to interact with them again. But when he came back, he’d been so...different. He’d come back the next morning before breakfast with a limp in his step and a glassiness to his eyes. They’d thought he died, before he tapped on the window four times, crawling in looking so fucking distraught.

_I saw the devil tonight_ , he’d whispered, green hair mussy and rightfully fucked. _He’s no animal, but a man. A scary monster wearing a man’s skin._

But he’d been alive, somehow. Something had changed in his eyes, then, something that Ethan can still see in the hues. A taste of something, and what fools they’d been to not realize it at the time. 

“Shit,” Ethan breathes out, when Jack’s silence is the answer. “I...god. How the hell aren’t you dead?”

Jack gnaws on his lower lip, before offering a half-hearted shrug. “I really don’t know, Ethan. I...my life hasn’t been great. Once I aged out, I...I went to college. But nothing...nothing made sense, not really. I was so lost and confused and I went out partying one night and there he was again, and I thought, _god, let me have that one more time_. Let me have that freedom one more time. And like some sort of secret I told him my name, and everything happened thereafter.” 

“Did he hurt you?” Ethan asks, cautious, unsure if he wants the answer. “... _Does_ he hurt you? Like, does he...did he force you...or…”

His old friend waves a hand like the information is irrelevant. “God, no. I mean. Not like that. He could’ve. But no, I...I wanted it. We established that fairly early on. I was just kind of...his toy, for a bit. Monthly fuckings, if you will. God, Ethan, do you know how many times I’ve had sex in my life? So fucking many, with like, three people max. I’ve had enough sex for a lifetime and I’m still doing it.”

“Ew,” Ethan murmurs. “Is it _that_ good?”

“I’ve had better,” Jack admits. 

He balks out a laugh. “Whack, dude. That’s crazy. So you’re just like...dating the mob boss. Wow. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t find you after I got out.”

“I think I could write a couple books with all the shit that’s happened since I left Little Whispers,” Jack murmurs, and that tension in his shoulders seems to loosen. “At any rate, don’t...don’t worry about Dark. He won’t hurt you, and he won’t find some way to evict you from here. He’ll leave you alone. I’ll make sure of that.” 

Ethan nods to the tune of Jack’s voice, so much different than he remembers. He keeps thinking of how much Jack has changed, and still...still wonders about those scars, that energy he carries, the ghosts that hang off of him. 

“I’ll probably regret asking,” he says, after what feels like an eternity. “I’ll probably regret asking you this but...what the hell happened, Jack? Of all the places...of all the places I’d thought you’d go when you walked out the doors of the orphanage, this wasn’t the one I saw you in.”

Jack smiles at him, somber, eyes glassy. He shakes his head, and Ethan watches his throat bob, like a most unwelcome visit. 

“You ask anyone in this city about the boy who got away from the Virus,” he mumbles, strained, almost hollow, “you ask anyone in this city or the next or any thereafter about Jules Arvid and what pie he doesn’t have his fingers in. You ask anyone in the whole goddamn world about who the hell the Monster’s Darling is, and…”

Those unfamiliar but so reminiscent blue eyes close, followed by a short, uneven breath. 

“I made a choice, Ethan, to love a monster,” Jack breathes, like a dirty little secret, like something he can’t express, like something he’s so afraid to speak of. “Once...once you do, you can never go back.” 

Ethan can’t stop himself from reaching across the table, taking Jack’s hand gently. For all that Jack may be a new person now, there is that seed in him, that fragment of his once beloved friend, and he’ll be damned if he lets that get away from him. 

His old friend grips his hand tight. “And I...I don’t want to go back.” 

He says nothing as he watches that single tear trail down those still pale, still alive cheeks. He does nothing but hold him harder, the affirmation that he’s there, for all of it. For anything he wants to share.

A sniffle. Ethan remains transfixed by the emotions passing across his expression. 

“Let me start from the beginning,” Jack nods, as though not speaking to him, speaking to someone else, perhaps a child. The ghost of himself. “It started...so long ago.” 

His hand doesn’t stray from his as Jack opens his mouth, and speaks.


	4. the one with the whipping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *From chapter 20, wherein Dark explains to Jack that the scars on his back are from when he was whipped. He admitted that he thought he was going to die.

The first strike comes without warning, a sharp, almost electric shock to his skin. He hears it more than he feels it, but soon, the pain of that whip bubbles to the surface, but he does not cry out.

Jules will find him. He always does. If Dark gets too quiet, Jules will find him.

Another whip crack, overlapping that initial mark. Wrapping his hands up in the slack of the ropes used to bind him, he grinds his teeth.

He has had much worse pain than this. He has had much worse pain than this.

Another crack, less time, less frightening, more painful. He feels that drizzle of blood oozing out of the newly sliced skin, and his mouth opens, but he does not scream.

The gunshots hurt worse than this. They always have, and he's taken more bullets than a man should.

Five more, in such a short amount of time. One after the other, it *burns*, sears him like a brand. His teeth clenched so hard that he wonders how they've not broken under this pressure. How they've not cracked under the weight of the cries trying to leave him.

He is the Monster. The Most Dangerous Man in the Country. The bane of all worlds. The emperor. The _king_.

Another, another, another.

Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.

Nineteen.

Twenty.

He loses count somewhere around there, finding it pointless to try and remember. He needs to focus on _something_ , though, anything. Anything but the blistering pain.

Dark sees spots across his vision, his eyes clenched tight. He digs his nails into that scant amount of slack, opening his mouth again, the barest whisper of a whimper leaving, but he wrenches it back in, refusing, refusing to give them this twisted satisfaction.

"You will break, Monster," that disgusting pig of a man has the gaul to speak to him, when he refuses to fight him? Tied up where Dark cannot strike him? "And I will love to watch you beg me for mercy."

With as much courage, which as much strength as he can summon forth, Dark sneers out, "As I will love to listen to you shriek as I skin you alive." 

Another. Another. Another. "Stop. Fucking. Talking."

He needs to focus on something. Anything. Anything. 

Flecks of blue eyes. Pale skin, flushing under his touch. Crooked teeth. Green hair. 

_My name is Warren Kier Durant, and I will not break._

It has been so long since he's spoken, or even thought his real name. But before there was Dark the Monster, there was Warren. A boy soft, unsure, desperate to fit in somewhere. A boy who had lost it all in a blink of an eye. Only to take it back in the form of vengeance. 

Warren. Someone who died long ago. The last person to know him by that name died, too. 

Always Dark. Dark the Monster. Dark the Horrible. The Dark One. The leader. The boss. 

Another. Another. Another. 

Blood dribbles down his back. 

But his real name is Warren. Warren Kier Durant. And though that boy had died so long ago, he survived the worst. He stood back up when everything tumbled down on top of him.

_My name is Warren Kier Durant, and I will not break._

Another.

_My name is Warren Kier Durant, and I will not break._

Another.

_My name is Warren Kier Durant, and I will not break._

Another. Another. Another.

Anotheranotheranotheranother

another. 

_My name is Warren Kier Durant, and I will not break._

_My name is Warren Kier Durant, my name is Warren Kier Durant, my name is Warren Kier Durant, my name is Warren Kier Durant--_

_I will not break._

He repeats this to himself over, and over, and over, until the darkness claims him.


	5. the one with cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Mentions and implications of rape/non-con abound. From Chapter 5 in which Cry details obtaining Jack.

When Cry hears the news of a new boy brought in, he’s immediately intrigued. 

For one, people are usually brought and bought in shipments. Singles are dangerous and often hard to cover up, missing persons reports and legality. His workers know this, and knows it’s high risk. 

He would kill someone for doing such a thing, honestly, if Russ hadn’t stepped in. 

“You want to see this boy,” he had said, calm and cool. “I think you’ll find him…worth your while.”

And they’d brought this blotchy, doe-eyed boy in, shocking green hair and anxiety shimmering in his core. He looked at Cry like he’d seen the Devil and got away, only to find something much, much worse. 

“The Monster’s Darling,” Cry had laughed. “What’s brought you so far from home?”

The boy had said nothing, seemingly confused by the title, perplexed by a strange man’s words. He hadn’t seemed to understand the gravity of the situation. He didn’t look the sort to, really. No one did. The way he tucked his lip between his teeth, gnawing at it slowly, frightened, wishing these bad men would let him go home. 

He would be fun, this one. 

It would be fun to watch the boy crumple under his touch, both gentle and harsh, to watch those doe eyes well up with an influx, an overflow of tears. It has been so long since he’s gotten to play, since he’s gotten to sink his fingers into warm, welcoming flesh--with pretty, unwelcome words--littering his skin. It’s been so long since he got to make marks that he didn’t have to worry about covering up for sales.

His skin will redden underneath the bite of chains, bones will bend and shatter, only to be put back together over and over. Or maybe he won’t break anything, just let the slow, lingering agony of taut muscles and a raw voice do the job just fine. The crippling weight of what will come next bearing down on his small, fragile chest. This boy will know his name, perhaps better than Dark’s, and this knowledge, this mere thought, stirs a sickening glee inside of him that has been dormant for so long.

Yes, this one would be fun. To place his mark somewhere that he, the Monster, that Dark would see, that Dark would never be able to remove, no matter how hard he tried. 

Cry smiles from beneath his mask. 

The Grimoire has made a terrible mistake, he thinks, as he steps forward to inspect the boy closer. His terrible mistake being that he let the keeper of his heart stray so close from home.

_Jack_ , the boy breathes, as though compliance will save him, will relieve him of what pain is to come. He doesn’t even realize it, what a mess he’s made of his own life, going toe-to-toe with the Monster and surviving, only to find something lurking far deeper in the shadows. 

_Jack_ , Cry thinks, and how Dark must hold that name close to his chest where a heart should be, even if he doesn’t realize it. What he keeps pressed against his rib cage for harrowing days, the simplicity of a four letter word that brings him comfort, even when he pretends it doesn’t. 

_Jack_ , the boy repeats, so frightened still, flinching under the touch of an unknown man, as though sensing that ill intent, as though fully aware of what those hands will do to him in mere hours--minutes, if he gets bored. He’s so soft, so full of energy, that need to fight back, even if he’s at his wits end.

_Jack_ , Cry thinks, smoothing a hand across his cheek, tender, perhaps not unlike how the Monster treats him. The gesture, however, provides little comfort, and this, at least, he’s learned. The boy stands still, closing those eyes, locking away those hidden gemstones that Cry can’t wait to rip the light from, return to Dark as a broken shell of what he once was. 

And when he pushes a thumb past those pretty pink lips, just to feel him out, he laughs when that spitfire erupts, biting hard onto his finger. He’s no animal, no, but more of a bunny, a rabbit with a vicious kick but still decidedly weak, _prey_. Cry feels the warm sensation of his own blood mixing with the saliva of the boy’s mouth, and he _laughs_. 

Jack. A four letter word meaning so little, in this whole wide world, but so much still.

His legacy will last a lifetime.

**Author's Note:**

> Visit me at voidskelly.tumblr.com! Thank you so much!!


End file.
